


That Must Suck!

by Bitsy



Series: The Suck Series [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Birthday, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Mentions of canon characters - Freeform, Mentions of canon deaths, mentions of off-screen deaths, mentions of original characters - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-26
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-06 04:06:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1102208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bitsy/pseuds/Bitsy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Having your birthday on Christmas? God, that must suck! Getting double-duty presents, and nobody even noticing..."</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Must Suck!

_She was left in her bed, the rest of the pack outside celebrating the holiday. Wolves did indeed celebrate Christmas, but it was usually tied in with the Solstice too. Wolves loved winter, with the long nights. And this year was no different; the full moon actually fell on Christmas day, an alignment not seen in decades. It was a very good omen. She'd been in labor for twelve hours, alone and huffing through the worst of the pain. She could sense her husband's near-panic as he paced the front door of the house, a sentry and protector, could hear Laura's not-so-subtle whine about not opening her presents yet._

_Talia's room - or more accurately den - was small, almost cramped, and full of soft things, pillows and throw blankets in soft colors. (She insisted on soft colors; the day-glo everything that permeated the year 1986 was something that set any wolf's teeth on edge.) The den reeked now, or at least would reek to an outside observer. It stank of blood and sweat and placenta, which had burst with her waters, the afterbirth red and blue and messy on the plastic-sheeted mattress. But to Talia, the scent was familiar, herself, and the scent of her tiny newborn son. He was silent, as all born wolves were, eyes closed tight against an unforgiving and cold world. He shivered in her arms, even as she cleaned him with a warm, damp cloth. The cloth, the afterbirth, everything would be wrapped up and buried in the backyard, a tree planted over the spot to mark Derek's arrival. And she scented him, embedded the moment in her memory, the scents of pine needles and paper and roasted chicken that her mother was cooking for dinner. But more than that, she could smell Derek, the uniqueness of him, that subtle baby scent, that subtle wolf scent, his little fists curled up tight, his thin legs bowed uncomfortably now that they weren't tucked up in the womb any more._

_"Happy birthday," she cooed, pressing sweet, nuzzling kisses to her baby's cheeks. She would emerge shortly, introduce the newest member of the pack, and collapse into a hot bath before sleeping. But for now, this moment, this bond between mother and son came first, was the utmost priority. "Merry Christmas."_

***

He never went to movies, except on one day a year. Not out of any desire to actually watch anything, but because movie theaters were one of the only distractions still open. The library, one of his usual haunts, was closed. So were the coffee shops with the dark corners, where he could read and hide himself as needed. (Who would believe that was Derek Hale reading _Candide_ in the back of a hip coffee shop, after all?) 

He never ate Chinese food, either, except on this one day a year. He had to laugh at the irony of a werewolf basically following a Jewish tradition. But for somebody who never wanted to celebrate... _this_ day ever again, Derek found that distractions were absolutely vital. So he'd sit in a dark theater, as far away from other people as he could manage, and just tune out the world. The Secret Life Of Walter Mitty was about all he could manage today. And oh, what a temptation the story represented. To just give in, live a fantasy life of his own devising, and eventually win the day? God, if only he were so lucky. In the two years since Laura and Erica and Boyd's deaths, in the year since Peter's death, in the six months since Aiden and Ethan's deaths, in the two months since Chris Argent's death, Derek had long since been tempted to just...turn his brain off, walk into the sunset, and never look back. But his Alpha needed him here. The other Betas needed him here. He was their only real resource anymore, now that he was the only born wolf left. (Cora was in Colorado, in college, firmly ensconced in a new pack.) Scott's pack had grown; Isaac had been joined by Kira and Olivia and Michael, the wolves finally outnumbering the humans. (Okay, Kira was a Kitsune, but still counted. She and Scott were pretty adamant about her counting.) And then Jackson had come back, if only to take Lydia away with him in his own quest to become an Alpha (and Derek was quietly relieved that he didn't have the power anymore: he didn't trust Jackson any further than he could throw him, supernatural strength notwithstanding). Allison had vanished after her father had died; Isaac eventually confessed that she'd gone back to her family's old house in Connecticut to mourn, and keep herself and her violent tendencies in check. All the wolves agreed that this was for the best, although Isaac had taken to sitting alone on the roof of Scott's house, scenting the wind and waiting for her to come back...

Stiles...well. Stiles was well on his way to becoming a pretty kick-ass druid, even if he was throwing off more power than usual whenever he would have an inevitable spazz moment. His skin was mottled with interesting tattoos...and one Boba Fett tattoo because he just couldn't resist the urge. Scott had asked if Boba Fett also grounded him in the lay lines, and Stiles had replied with a smirk, "I already feel the Force flowing through me, Young Skywalker. And you still haven't finished Return of the Jedi, so you can't make those jokes."

Stiles didn't need him. Derek avoided Stiles as much as possible, ever since he'd turned eighteen, in spite of the obvious and long-denied longing on both their parts. (The pack teased Stiles mercilessly. Stiles, but never Derek. One did not tease Derek Hale and walk away with all one's fingers. Not unless one was named Stiles Stilinski...but it was too sore of a point for even him to bring up.) No, they were not together, and never would be. Better for everybody all around. A druid and a Beta? Bad idea. Emissaries were supposed to be detached, to help maintain a pack's humanity. Deaton was one of the best at that, a trick Stiles had never, ever managed. Emotionally compromised. Very bad idea. Practically forbidden in werewolf lore for so many reasons...but had their practical demonstration in Jennifer Blake. Another scar on Derek's psyche that he definitely didn't feel like picking at on Christmas.

There. He'd said it, even if just in his head. Christmas. Big deal. 

Leaving the theater, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, he stalked up the sidewalks of Beacon Hills, head down, shoulders hunched. He'd walked there three hours earlier, and now was almost relishing the walk back, even in the dark and cold. His breath was steaming at his nostrils as he put one heavy foot down in front of the other, memorizing the cracks in the sidewalk below as he passed. He didn't let his brain wander anywhere, locked down tightly to keep his emotions in check. All he let himself process was the gray of the concrete, the occasional fleck of mica flickering under the streetlamps. Twenty minutes was all it took to get to the cheaper Chinese place in town, the one that put a full two pounds of shrimp fried rice in a paper container for four dollars and seventy-five cents. He got that, he got an order of spare ribs and a double order of spring rolls and an order of green beans and chicken in black bean sauce. So much food, yes. But he always got this much, just in case one of the pack came over to join him. They never wished him a Merry Christmas, they knew better than that, out of some sort of instinct. He'd never told them the significance of the day, aside from the usual. They all just assumed that The Great Grumpaluffagus (Stiles' latest nickname for him) wouldn't ever celebrate.

He bundled his meal up in a large paper bag, cradled it in both arms, and made the fifteen minute walk back to his flat. The food would hopefully stay at least a little warm, but if not, he had a perfectly decent microwave ready to go. And then, he'd put on the latest episode of The Blacklist, or maybe the least Christmasy movie he could find in his sparse collection (he was pondering the director's cut of Dune, because if there was one fictional character ever who maybe had it worse than him, it was Paul Atriedes). And then he'd read for a bit. Maybe have a couple of bottles of Guinness. Yes, he couldn't get drunk, but he could enjoy the taste of it. And then he'd go to sleep, and this miserable day would be behind him for another three hundred and sixty-four days.

He pulled the sliding door from the elevator aside with casual ease, in spite of it weighing hundreds of pounds, and let himself in. He got three steps inside when he froze, and then pulled a very annoyed face.

"Stiles."

The teenager in question was perched on Derek's kitchen counter, his feet dangling over the edge, hunched over his phone. It was the boy's third phone in a year; for some reason he kept shorting them out whenever he got too emotional. His head snapped up when Derek walked in, and he grinned like a man possessed,

"Hey! I was wondering when you'd get here with the Chinese. Tell me you got spare ribs, because right now I would literally sacrifice a cow and barbecue sauce to get them. Which has already been done by somebody else at a processing plant somewhere, so I'd hate to duplicate their efforts."

Rolling his eyes, Derek finally closed the door behind him and strode past Stiles into the kitchen. The bag was put down on the counter just to the right of Stiles's hip, which the boy took as an invitation to start rummaging around in. Derek used the pause in verbiage to divest himself of his keys, his wallet, his coat. Although he couldn't help it; he took a moment to give a lingering look up and down the boy's body, hidden under a white t-shirt and pinstripe vest and skinny jeans and a terrible hipster haircut and glasses. (Derek never admitted to himself that Stiles in hornrim glasses was the fucking sexiest thing on the planet. Nope. Never ever admitting it.) He let himself listen to Stiles' heartbeat, warm and steady and reassuring, although a little faster than usual. Adderall? He'd stopped taking it when he got into druid stuff, for the most part, but every now and then still needed a little help in the focus department. Or maybe he was nervous about something...

"What do you want, Stiles?"

"...To eat your delicious Chinese food, of course. I have a bet going with Scott. He says you're going to binge-watch Orange Is The New Black, I say you're gonna put Dune on again because you never stop punishing yourself. Seriously. David Lynch. It's sick, Derek, and this is an intervention."

"You win," the werewolf answered flatly, grabbing a pair of chopsticks out of the bag and making himself a thousand promises. It's the first time he's been alone with Stiles in months, and he will not let his resolve waver. Stiles grins, and punches the air with one fist.

"I knew it! See, this is why I came over, you deserve so much better than that on your birthday."

And the world tilted to the left. Derek took in a ragged breath, freezing in the middle of the kitchen, before steadying himself on the back of a nearby chair. He hadn't felt this exposed, this vulnerable, in a very long time. A thousand horrible memories assaulted his brain, horrible because they had once been so pleasant, memories tinged with the feelings of pack and home and family and safety and happiness. Feelings he'd lost forever, lost because he was such a credulous fool. He could practically hear Laura's laugh from across the years, of the Hale family's last Christmas, laughing because Derek's pile of presents were only ever done in red and green paper. He got a birthday cake in red and green frosting, with red and green candles, every year. Every other Hale child got a day all their own, but his was shared with Baby Jesus and Santa Claus and spent with every family member from eight surrounding counties. Not fair. He really, really _hated_ the colors red and green together, just for the record, which was such a stupid, and petty thing to hate, even now. He finally managed to get breathing properly again and looked up, to see Stiles staring at him intently, all amusement gone from his face. He knew, he _knew_ what effect that bombshell was going to have, and was studying Derek closely, ready to hop off the counter and support him. So that's why his heartbeat was elevated, he'd come here tonight to spring this on Derek, force him to confront everything that he so desperately didn't want to.

"How did you know?" Derek asked, his voice rough with emotion. He hated the way he sounded right now. Stiles mercifully ignored it, and Derek had never respected him more.

"If I say I consulted the runes, would you believe me?" Stiles asked. That got a low growl out of the werewolf, which Stiles rolled his eyes at. "Okay, okay. I asked Cora when your birthday was. I wanted to get you a present. And then when she told me, I felt _really_ rotten for you, dude. Having your birthday on Christmas? God, that must suck! Getting double-duty presents, and nobody even noticing..."

Derek made a mental note to hop a red-eye to Colorado and smack Cora upside the head. He let go of his grip on the chair and stood up straight, shaking his head and frowning. The grumpy facade was back, and his anger. His anchor, which was desperately needed at the moment.

"Yes, fine, whatever," he snapped, regaining his equilibrium and grabbing the styrofoam container of chicken. "Okay, it's my birthday, it's not a big deal. I'm not exactly in the habit of celebrating it anymore."

"I noticed."

Derek looked up again, because he was caught by the small, sad tone Stiles used. And now he did hop off the counter, leaning up against it casually, arms across his chest. And then Derek looked away again, sitting down to eat. He didn't want to talk about it anymore, didn't want to deal with the memories and all they represented. He covered it by popping open the container in front of him, with a bright, cheerful squeal of damp styrofoam rubbing against itself. 

"I still got you a birthday present."

"I don't want it."

"Ugh! You're an idiot, Derek. You really are. When a _druid_ calls you an idiot, you best pay attention, because we have the mojo to make it an actual, literal thing. I could leave you a drooling mess right here in the kitchen, good for nothing other than getting a job as a telemarketer."

He didn't even dignify that with a response, instead just calmly shoveling the chicken in his mouth with his chopsticks.

"There are spare ribs and spring rolls in the other containers," he said flatly. "Eat them and shut up."

That did the trick, and Stiles was momentarily distracted. He soon joined Derek at the table with the rest of the food, and wordlessly shoveled half the rice into the empty half of Derek's container. He had to smirk at that; even now, in the middle of what felt like a fight, Stiles was trying to take care of him. He also was handed two slightly soggy spring rolls, his fair share, and he nodded in thanks. No words were exchanged for a few long minutes as both men ate their meal. But Derek could feel the power of Stiles' gaze on him. Nope. Those promises weren't going to be broken. Even if he was now deathly curious as to what his birthday present was. As to what _Stiles_ thought was an appropriate gift for somebody who never so much as hinted to his birthday in the past.

"Fine."

He broke the silence after five minutes, and Stiles lit up like, yes, a Christmas tree. He reached into his vest's pocket and pulled out a small, slender package. It was wrapped in bright blue paper, with orange balloons and yellow stars picked out on it. And Derek blinked; it was the first time he'd ever gotten a gift not wrapped in red and green. Stiles apparently noticed the reaction, and grinned even bigger.

"Do you have any idea how freakin' hard it is to find normal birthday wrapping paper this time of year? Target was completely out, I actually had to call a specialty store in Hill Valley and spend gas money on getting there to pick it up. That is, without a doubt, the most expensive paper I've ever wrapped anything in, you better appreciate it."

Derek showed his appreciation by tearing into it at a diagonal, nearly shredding the paper. And Stiles nodded, because that was indeed the best way to appreciate anybody's wrapping job. And Derek, well, he looked down at the first proper, birthday-only present he'd ever really gotten, prying open the box's lid. Inside was a bracelet, with braided hemp and a flat metallic piece to curve over the top of his wrist. At first he thought Stiles had bought it at some cheap gift shop, but then he looked closer. The metal was a burnished copper, low and orange and warm. It was scratched all over with deep runes, at what appeared to be haphazard angles. And on either side of it, two perfectly round, cloudy-gray stones winked up at him. 

"That's why I needed your birthday," Stiles said quietly. Derek looked up, and was not at all surprised to see Stiles almost glowing with power. "Time of day, place, and date. It's a protection spell, Derek. I've made them for everybody over the last year. Scott's was hard, he was born during a half moon, and that's tricky to balance for you werewolves. But you, you were born on a sacred day, under the full moon. Yours was...oh, Derek, yours was _easy_."

And Derek can feel the joy in that ease, the thrum of excitement in Stiles' voice, because it went so beautifully, perfectly right. Derek could picture him, deep in a druid's trance, as he carved the spell's ancient letters into the copper, setting the moonstone with a soldering iron, heat and cold and metal and plants all twining together to make the cuff sitting on Derek's palm. It felt heavy, but in a very comforting way. For the first time in years, Derek didn't regret the accident of his birth, if it brought that much simple joy to Stiles.

"Put it on," the boy urged, leaning forward eagerly, his honey-brown eyes bright and wide. Derek did as he was told, and wasn't surprised when Stiles put one long finger in the center of his wrist, just over his pulse. He closed his eyes and Derek held perfectly still, waiting to see what would happen. It was very anti-climactic when Stiles let out a long, low sigh, licked his lips, and then sat back. The werewolf felt something, something just on the edge of his senses, but then it was gone.

"What, you're not gonna chant over me or anything?" he teased gently, to cover the emotions he was feeling. Stiles just laughed, laughed brightly and loudly.

"Dude, you've been watching the wrong kind of tv shows. I don't need to chant, I just need to believe. And believing in you is also easy."

That felt like a punch to the gut, Derek's jaw dropping and letting out a startled 'whoosh' of breath. It was his turn to close his eyes and collect himself. And while he did, he felt Stiles' warm hand cover his own. It was a gentle touch, but it slammed through all his barriers, all his denial, all his promises to never feel that _need_ again. Not since Jennifer. He hadn't even so much as touched himself in those two years, denying himself even the slightest release from his body's needs. Worst of all, Stiles seemed to know that somehow, and made a tiny, whimpering noise. It spoke of his own need, his own want, even if he'd been much less of a monk about it. Since the darkness that surrounded his heart was on supernatural lockdown (Derek was fairly certain that's what the tattoo over his left clavicle was all about, after all, the one dark eye with a serpent's tail trailing from it), Stiles had become so much more like his old self. The old self that talked too much and was a cheerful and persistent and annoying little shit. Although it was still tinged with a slight edge of blackness, the fist in the glove. Derek opened his eyes, to find himself staring into Stiles'. They were definitely having a moment, over Chinese food.

"...How long are you going to deny this?" Stiles finally asked, his voice quiet and steady.

"...As long as it takes to keep us from making a terrible mistake." Jennifer Blake's face swam in his vision again, and the thought of Stiles becoming like her _because of him_ was like a knife to the ribs. And Stiles sighed.

"One of these days, I'm going to convince you that it's not a terrible mistake, and what we feel for each other is not like the billion other rotten things in your life so far. But fine. I'm willing to be patient. I'll wait for you. Druids kinda have to be patient, it's a thing. It's why Deaton never rushes anywhere, or even raises his voice. It's really honestly kind of obnoxious, one of these days I'm going to spike his coffee with Siracha sauce just to make him yelp."

Derek tuned ninety percent of that out: all he took from it were the words _I'll wait for you._ A slow, warm tingle spread through his body, and he smiled. Genuinely smiled. It's gone in a flash, but it was there. Just long enough for Stiles to spot it, and his heart to audibly skip a beat. Derek would be replaying that sound in his head for the rest of the night.

"Here."

Stiles pulled out another package from the inner pocket of his vest (seriously, the hipster vest had to go, thought Derek to himself). This present was longer, more rectangular, and lighter. And wrapped in the ubiquitous red-green-tree-reindeer paper that he'd come to loathe. But now, on the tail of his first present, it was much less hateful. Derek tore the paper open, to reveal...

"The Hobbit on DVD?" he asked, sounding genuinely confused.

"What?" asked Stiles. "I'm still allowed to give out regular presents. Jeez, a guy starts tapping into the natural wonders of the world and suddenly everything has to be supernatural. I know you like Tolkien dude, you have a copy of Lord of the Rings on your bookshelf. C'mon, let's finish dinner and watch this."

Five minutes later, they're on opposite sides of Derek's couch, munching the rest of their dinner and enjoying the music that played over the New Line logo before he spoke up again.

"...I didn't get you anything."

"I know. You can get me something next year."

"I'll get you something tomorrow."

"I want a pony."

"You're not getting a pony."

"You're no fun at all."


End file.
